by Lark, Sarah
“Marae are houses?” Dobbins asked.
“More like community spaces. Gathering places, living quarters, storehouses. In Parihaka, there was a marae for every tribe. Just to have a presence, or, as my mother says, to breathe in the spirit of Parihaka and then take it with you to every corner of the island. I wasn’t born yet, but my parents say it was wonderful. Lots of work, but also dancing and music. My mother claims every night was a festival.”
“But then came the land surveyors,” Dobbins recalled. “It was in all the papers.”
Atamarie nodded. “The government wanted to settle pakeha farmers in the area and sold them the land of the Maori tribes who had lived there for centuries without a second thought. Te Whiti and his people protested—peacefully and sometimes creatively.”
Dobbins smiled. “I remember them plowing grassland, right? To make it unusable for grazing sheep?”
“And they tried to fence in the tribal lands to protect them,” Atamarie added. “But in the end, that only made the government angry, and Parihaka was stormed and destroyed. Te Whiti and his followers spent time in prison. A few people even died. But later, when Te Whiti was free again, he returned to Parihaka, and many of the former residents came back as well. My parents bought land, so they can’t be driven out again. And now Parihaka is becoming, well, you could call it a ‘spiritual center.’ They teach traditional crafts, celebrate the old festivals, all that. It’s wonderful to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. The loom’s already been invented, but in Parihaka, I still have to use techniques from the Stone Age.”
Professor Dobbins laughed as Atamarie told him of her attempts to improve the weaving frames and weirs.
“My inventors. Mr. Pearse and Miss Turei, I’m excited to see what technologies you two revolutionize.”
It did not rain any more that night—Matariki would probably have credited friendly spirits who wanted to do Parihaka proud. As the riders came down from the hills, they saw the village lying before them. Above it rose the majestic volcano, and the Tasman Sea glittered in the moon- and starlight. Parihaka was an impressive sight—many of its residents had fallen in love with the place at once. Dobbins and his students, however, were distracted by the streetlights on the village’s thoroughfares.
“Well, I’ll be,” Dobbins marveled. “This place is more advanced than half the South Island. And it looks like someone’s still awake.”
Atamarie opened the light wooden gate and ushered her guests inside. A fire was still burning in the first marae, and a few night owls were sitting around it. They greeted the guests without surprise and promptly offered whiskey.
“Have a seat, everyone. I’ll see if we can rustle up something to eat,” a young woman said happily in fluent English. “The bakers are probably at work already, and I’m sure they still have some bread from today.”
Swaying a bit, she dashed off while her friends made space for the new arrivals around the fire.
A short time later, a more sober but no-less-enthusiastic welcome committee appeared, including Atamarie’s mother. Matariki Parekura Turei was a petite woman with long, wavy black hair, which she wore down in Maori fashion. She had large light-brown eyes that shimmered with almost-golden light, as did her light-brown skin.
“Oh, it’s so nice to have you home again, Atamie.” Matariki pulled Atamarie into a pakeha-style hug before exchanging the hongi with her, putting her nose and forehead to Atamarie’s. “Kupe is off in Wellington again, and I’m lonely. We’ll take your friends to the new guest lodge, and then you’ll come home with me.”
The new Parihaka consisted of plain, quickly constructed huts but also of rebuilt meetinghouses adorned with artistic carvings. For guests, there were modern apartments with dormitories and even running water.
“They leave a little wanting in terms of spirit,” Matariki explained regretfully as she showed them inside. “We really would prefer to house our guests in common lodges in the old style. But most favor comfort over tradition, and a lot of them are pakeha. We wouldn’t want them to think we can’t handle modern conveniences.”
Professor Dobbins and his students assured Matariki they had not rested as comfortably during their whole journey.
“Please, stay as long as you like,” Matariki said. “You can survey the land starting from here. It doesn’t matter, after all, whether you start from the east or the west. The best thing would be to decide based on the weather: when it looks good, stay a few days in the forest, and if it looks bad, just sleep here. In any case, tomorrow night we’d like to invite you to a traditional hangi festival. We use the volcano’s heat for our ovens. That might interest you engineers.”
Atamarie imagined that Richard, at least, would have a dozen suggestions for improvement, but that night, everyone was too tired to think of anything but sleep. Atamarie curled up contentedly on her mat in her parents’ house. Although Matariki and Kupe were enthusiastic about Maori traditions, both had enjoyed modern upbringings, and communal sleeping in the meetinghouse did not appeal. Preferring privacy, they dwelled in their own small cabin near the school, decorated with beautiful carvings.
“Has everything gone well so far?” Matariki asked before sending her daughter to bed. “Are you getting along with the young men?”
Atamarie smiled happily at her mother. “Swimmingly,” she sighed. “It’s the loveliest excursion I’ve ever been on.” She yawned.
Matariki returned the smile indulgently, but she wondered a bit. All this rain and yet her daughter was dreamy-eyed? She’d have to take a closer look at those students in the morning. Clearly, one among them was brightening Atamarie’s days.
The people of Parihaka happily offered guides to Dobbins and his students for the area of the future national park.
“You don’t need to worry about our farmers flying into a rage if you include a square foot or two of their pastures either,” Matariki explained. “All the land between the volcano and Parihaka belongs to us. The government—under even Seddon—granted us that much. True, it’s far less fertile than the land between the village and the sea. But much of that now belongs to white farmers. We used to work it, but things are different now.”
Dobbins assured Matariki that Parihaka was still quite remarkable. He was thoroughly impressed by the bank, the bakery, the stores. His students were already buying mementos for their families. Atamarie was happy when her mother announced there’d be a traditional powhiri, a greeting ceremony, that evening.
“Could I join in the dancing?” she asked Matariki before swinging up onto her horse.
She looked the perfect adventurer: equipped with spyglass, maps, and surveying rods, and back in her old riding dress, with a wide-brimmed leather hat in case of rain.
Matariki began to wonder again. Her daughter had learned to dance a haka and, as a little girl, had enthusiastically jumped around with the others. In recent years, however, she had not rushed to don the short piu-piu skirt with its tight hemp top and flitting poi-poi balls. Another sign that something was up. Yet, so far, Matariki had not caught any of the students following her daughter with shining eyes. At breakfast, Atamarie had eaten with the professor and a slender young man with thick brown locks, but she had not flirted with him.
“Of course you can,” Matariki said, her spirits high. “I’ll see if I can find a dancing dress for you. But not if you’re going to complain again about how you’re freezing in it.”
The weather was clear that day, and the students explored the rain forest in wonder. The vegetation zones at the foot of the volcano changed with astounding speed—one moment they found themselves in a bright landscape of fields and the occasional copse of conifers that looked entirely European, and the next they were stepping into a fairy-tale-like half-light dominated by ferns as tall as trees, climbing plants, and lichen.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if a snake was lurking around here,” one of the students joked as he looked up at one of the massive kamahi trees, its hanging roots forming biz
arre patterns. “Or monkeys, like in The Jungle Book.”
Their guide smiled indulgently. “Mr. Kipling described the jungle in India. Here, the vegetation is completely different. Many plants in Aotearoa are endemic. Like the rimu, for example. It desperately needs protection. The pakeha chopped down many trees for their houses and furniture. Once there were whole forests of it, and the individual trees could grow to be hundreds of years old.” He pointed at one of the tall trees with its wide needles. “And you don’t need to worry about monkeys. There’s nothing but birds and insects here. And just one type of snake.” He slapped a mosquito.
Professor Dobbins told them that the peak of Taranaki was one of the most symmetrical in the world and how they could make use of this very special landmark for surveying. The students clambered up hills, sketched landmarks, and entered them into maps. Unfortunately, this kept Atamarie away from Richard, whose job required him to stay back with the professor. Instead, Atamarie found herself working with a rather conceited junior. Porter McDougal didn’t even deign to acknowledge the girl at his side until Atamarie pointed out a major mistake he’d made. As the day progressed, he gladly left to her all the difficult tasks, watching as she climbed bluffs and clambered through thick brush. He’d probably never been out of Christchurch before.
“Tomorrow we’ll climb higher. The vegetation isn’t so thick there,” Atamarie said as they finally rode back to Parihaka, the girl filthy, with rips in her dress and scratched fingers, the young man spick-and-span. “More bushes and grass. But the slopes are sometimes steeper.”
“And I’ll expect you to make a bit more of an effort, Mr. McDougal,” remarked the professor, looking him over. “You’d do well to take an example from the young lady.”
Atamarie enjoyed the praise and was euphoric when they arrived back in Parihaka. The residents were already opening the first earthen ovens, and the village was filled with enticing aromas. She hurried to her parents’ home.
Matariki was waiting for her daughter with the traditional haka dress in hand. She observed contentedly how the young woman let down her hair, pushed it back with a wide headband in Parihaka’s colors, and slipped into the revealing outfit.
“So, which of those gentlemen are you looking to impress?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
Atamarie turned red, then confessed everything. She had never kept secrets from Matariki, and for her half-Maori mother, it was natural that her daughter should be interested in boys.
“I love talking with him. He has all the same dreams and professional aspirations I do. He’s an inventor, Mom. We could work together.”
Matariki laughed. “Your gift from the gods! So, what’s the problem?”
Atamarie sighed. “He hasn’t even tried to kiss me. I’m afraid he’s not interested.”
Matariki smiled. “Dear, you’re on a scientific expedition. You’re not supposed to be holding hands. It’s quite proper for the young man to show restraint. Maybe he’s just waiting until you’re back in Christchurch.”
“Fine,” Atamarie conceded. “I thought about that too. It’s just, well, he—somehow, he doesn’t look at me the right way.”
Matariki furrowed her brow. She really would have to take a closer look at the young man that evening.
A typical powhiri could last hours. But, while both sides normally danced and prayed, this evening, only the people of Parihaka performed.
“Powhiri serves to greet, but also to frighten,” Matariki explained to the professor and Richard. She had taken a seat between the two men. “Our visitors usually do not come individually but as a whole tribe. We show them what we have to offer in the ways of fighting techniques and spirit.”
She pointed at the young men who were presenting a martial haka. They stamped their spears in the ground, feigned attacks, and grimaced at their opponents.
“I recognize it from rugby,” one of the Dunedin students exclaimed, and Matariki laughed.
“Yes, that’s a good example, evidence for Te Whiti’s theory that Maori and pakeha have something to offer each other: we learned rugby from the English, and from us they learned the haka to frighten the opposing team.”
The oldest priestess followed this display by sealing the spiritual bond between heaven and earth, hosts and guests, with a full-throated cry, the karanga.
“From here on out, it’s peaceful,” Matariki said.
Now the young girls performed, dancing the haka powhiri. Matariki kept an eye on her daughter who, despite her exhausting excursion, kept up admirably. The wings of love. Matariki smiled, then turned her attention to Richard, quickly discovering what Atamarie had meant.
Richard Pearse was watching the dance with great interest and enjoyment. But his eyes did not light up when they fell on Atamarie. Matariki saw none of the lust that was in the eyes of a few other students, nor love.
But it could still happen. It had taken a long time for Matariki’s friendly feelings for Kupe to become love. And, since her first catastrophic love for Colin Coltrane, she put great stock in basing matters of love not just on attraction but also on shared interests and sensibilities. Matariki smiled when Atamarie, still flushed from dancing, sat down next to Richard. She had not changed clothes and would, without a doubt, soon be miserably cold. But before Matariki could fetch her a blanket, Richard stepped in.
“You danced wonderfully, Miss Turei,” he exclaimed. “And really looked like a Maori. Usually, your blonde hair makes you resemble the pakeha side of your family.”
Atamarie nodded happily. At least he had noticed that she was blonde! Progress. But a moment later, she shook her head at herself. She was being as ridiculous as Roberta around Kevin.
“You must be freezing. Allow me to fetch you a blanket.”
Richard stood up solicitously, and Atamarie told herself that this really was progress. She let the blanket slide lasciviously down her shoulders as she partook in the hangi that had been prepared in the ovens of the same name.
“It always tastes wonderful,” she said, and licked her lips.
In the novels Roberta read, this gesture was always supposed to be enticing. But Richard didn’t seem to notice, focusing instead on the ovens.
“Yes, it’s delicious. But it must be such hard work to have to dig these holes every time. Theoretically, it must be possible to bring the earth’s heat to the surface. You’d need some kind of pump.”
Atamarie gave up trying to impress him and devoted herself to the food. After the long day, she was as hungry as a wolf.
In the meantime, the other Maori boys and girls began to bring traditional instruments over to play around the fire.
Richard observed the various flutes and finally reached for a tumutumu, a sort of percussion instrument, from which he drew a few rather respectable sounds. Atamarie took up an nguru and played a melody to accompany him.
“That’s rather nice.” Richard smiled. “You’re really supposed to play that flute with your nose?”
Atamarie nodded. “And I’ve always found you look like an unbelievable fool doing so,” she declared.
“You could never look like a fool, Miss Turei. I believe you’re one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met. But have you ever considered whether the timbre of the flute could be preserved but the playing made a bit simpler if you moved the stops a little farther from one another?”
Matariki, who had just returned to the group, noticed that Richard Pearse’s eyes were finally shining. In his gaze were the long-looked-for stars as he watched Atamarie playing the nguru and then the complicated putorino as well.
“Strange,” she remarked to a friend whom she had been telling about Atamarie’s unrequited feelings. “And here I always thought a person looked ludicrous blowing into that thing.”
Chapter 9
Though Richard Pearse showed more enthusiasm for Atamarie that evening, he nevertheless remained a gentleman. He went no further than light touches on her fingers and shoulders, and Atamarie was unsure whether they elec
trified him as they did her. Other students were less restrained. After the dance, some disappeared with Atamarie’s local friends into the fields and hills.
In the morning, this drew a sharp rebuke from the professor. “It is unacceptable for you to abuse these people’s hospitality in this manner. Moreover, we’re not here for pleasure. It’s nine o’clock, gentlemen. I had hoped to be halfway up Mount Taranaki by now.”
Atamarie giggled. She was in high spirits after spending all of breakfast sitting with the girls, gossiping in Maori. Now she knew her classmates’ most intimate secrets better than their own mothers, and as she climbed onto her horse, she considered how she might use this against stuck-up Porter. For now, though, she had to concentrate on the path. Today they rode up through the rain-forest belt and over bush-spotted plains that gave way to alpine vegetation. Horses rarely had to climb here, and Atamarie was grateful that her mother had lent her her own horse, a powerful little cob mare.
Porter complained about his mare, which was not in particularly good shape, but nevertheless tried to spur her up every hill. Atamarie opted to climb the hills on her own feet, so as to spare the horse and take measurements.
“Who knows what’s hiding in the brush here,” Porter huffed when she suggested he do the same.
Atamarie giggled. “You weren’t afraid of the brush you were in last night with Pai. And that was much more dangerous. Most of the animals here are nocturnal, you know.”
As the landscape grew even harsher higher up, Porter finally saw that he had no other choice but to climb. Atamarie marveled at the rock and lava formations that her map called things like Humphries Castle and Warwick Castle.
“The gods favor us,” Atamarie joked as she brought her initial results to Richard and the professor. “Such clear weather for this time of year.”
“But it’s cold,” whined Porter.
The professor sighed. “We’re on a mountain, Mr. McDougal,” he replied. “You should undertake a thorough review of climate ecology. I’ll be returning to it in your final examination. For now, continue your work. The slopes are rather steep, and our guide warned me of chasms. Take him with you, just to be safe—or, no, he’s already gone with another group. Well, be careful.”